


Icarus Ascending

by tristinai



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Character Death, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, F/M, Shakarian - Freeform, Smut, mentions of Shiara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-22 12:44:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7439875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristinai/pseuds/tristinai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war had a way of turning her cracks into edges. She was shattered glass and Garrus foolishly kept cutting himself on all the pieces they failed to put back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After Thessia

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my renegon vanguard play through, this story follows a series of scenes that remain mostly canon-compliant for an un-romanced female Shepard. It started as a character study on how a fatalistic Shepard would weaponize sex to cope with the stress of war and the resulting fallout on her relationship with Garrus. Shepard is at times sympathetic but she certainly is not nice in this story. 
> 
> A big shout out to [Mordinette](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mordinette/pseuds/Mordinette) for beta reading and providing nothing but helpful suggestions and encouragement. I don't think I would be posting this otherwise.

He had known fear on more occasions than he would ever admit. Born to a militaristic culture, turians cultivated a level of discipline that remained unchallenged by even the most dedicated STG squads or asari commandos. Through their discipline, they learned to harness their fear, recognize it as a self-serving survival instinct, a liability that threatened any mission issued by command, and bury it behind persevering to accomplish strategic objectives in a warzone. Fear thrummed beneath their stoic expressions, fueling the adrenaline that got them from point A to B.

 

Garrus would think any turian stupid enough to deny their own flirtations with fear so full of shit, he would have a hard time taking anything they said at face value, pride be damned.

 

What he _wasn't_ familiar with was hopelessness. Defeat.

 

Numbers passed through his omni-tool on a daily basis. Thousands dead in an off-world colony. Destruction of warships defending Menae. Tears in the paper thin defense as more of the turian fleet was held back to prepare for the final assault.

 

It was a cold calculus that left the constant burning of bile searing the back of his throat and a smaller part of him felt helpless each time his talons typed in commands, demanding resources be allocated elsewhere and leaving many to die at the hands of the Reapers.

 

There was helplessness. There was fear. But all of this could be rationalized, banking on the long term, on the slim chance that they would actually succeed.

 

Then he had exchanged a look with Shepard as she left the War room and for the first time since the assault on Palaven, Garrus truly believed it was over.

 

The weight of the universe collapsed on her shoulders. The nearly imperceptible lines of her face flared starkly against the littering of red scars splattered across her cheeks. But it was all in the dulled, forlorn blankness of her eyes that gave away how powerless the Reapers had made her.

 

Her crew was huddled around the command center, waiting for the inevitable follow-up to Thessia. But instead of being called into the War Room, Commander Shepard stepped past them and entered into the elevator, heading up to her private quarters.

 

For a long moment, no words were exchanged among the crew. The heaviness of her defeat settled in the air around them, thick enough that it seemed to suck out the oxygen. There was a coldness that seeped through his plates, burrowing deep beneath his scales and spreading down to his core, worse than anything he had ever felt on Noveria. Garrus felt he was in a vacuum, launched out into the isolated depths of space and no matter how desperately he clawed for air, there was nothing to grasp, nothing to inhale, nothing to keep him from floating farther into the black.

 

He didn't want to look at them, didn't want to see the same defeat in their eyes.

 

Finally, someone said, “One of us should talk to her.”

 

Traynor. Of course it would be Traynor. She wasn't as hardened as the rest of them. She hadn't been there to take on Sovereign or make their suicidal dash through the Omega 4 Relay. She probably still believed that empty platitudes could sway a lost soul.

 

He could feel a few eyes on him and wanted to bitterly throw Liara under the bus. Let her deal with Shepard after the way the commander had been going back and forth between him and the asari. Where once Liara had been a good friend to Garrus, there was now nothing but awkward avoidance and terse exchanges as they both gave Shepard time to “figure things out.”

 

(And maybe Liara placed more blame on Garrus for coming between her and Shepard but, in his defense, they all thought Liara's obsession with the Shadow Broker and her refusal to help had sealed the nail in the coffin in their relationship.)

 

But a quick glance only affirmed what Garrus already knew: Liara was undoubtedly still in her cabin, grieving over the devastation she had witnessed on Thessia. She was in no state to talk with the commander and throwing her name out there would be, as Joker would say, a “dick move”.

 

“I don't think anything I say would help,” Garrus started, his subvocals vibrating with a hint of irritation.

 

It was completely lost on the rest of the non-turian crew. That, or they chose to ignore his discomfort.

 

“She's sweeter on you than she is on us, Scars,” Vega responded, though without the usual jest Garrus had grown accustomed to. He looked just as lost as the rest of them, leaning his heavy build against the console near Traynor.

 

“We need a lead, a destination, an objective...we need to do _something_ ,” Traynor said, her hands gripping the station of the console. She slumped over it, a tremble rocking her, with her back turned to the rest of them. Cortez gently placed a hand on her shoulder and all of them heard the light sniffle as Traynor tried to keep from crying. It made Garrus' harsh, unspoken critique of the specialist that much more callous.

 

They needed direction. Without it, what little morale they had was already crumbling.

 

“She's always respected you, Garrus,” Tali said quietly. “Maybe you can convince her it's not worth giving up.”

 

If it was supposed to persuade him further, there was no need. Garrus' feet had already carried him reluctantly to the elevator

 

*

 

He wasn't certain which was worse: the utter despair that had consumed the crew or the blank, empty stare that Shepard had decided to fix on the ceiling of her cabin.

 

He knew what the crew must have thought: they must have thought that his reluctance was based on a silly, romantic rivalry and the resulting tensions of its lack of resolution. Sure, Garrus loved Shepard. He loved her with a maddening resilience that made him put up with all the shit she threw his way, an unquestioned loyalty that had him charging into every battle beside her. She could use him, manipulate his affection for her in any way that she pleased, and he would still be there to pick up the pieces of whatever mess she got herself into.

 

He knew how idiotic and fruitless it was when it came to what he felt for her, romantically, but any reluctance he had at being in her cabin had nothing to do with that.

 

Above all, the rest of the crew seemed to overlook that Garrus respected her as a leader first. To him, she was what the heroes of legends were made of, tragic and flawed but able to overcome the odds through sure volition. It was their reputation that commanded respect, their determination that persisted against the stacked odds, that could rally a battalion to take on the toughest of foes.

 

Legends didn't acquaint themselves with defeat until they were in the height of battle and even then, only fell to achieve the victory that they sought, the taste of glory that was greater than their mortality.

 

Seeing a legend, staring mindlessly into a void only _she_ could perceive, shattered something inside of him that he wasn't prepared for.

 

The silence stretched unbearably and he could feel that familiar panic seize him all over again. With only the glow from the aquarium providing the barest of light, it made the void seem that much more real and he almost had to question if the _Normandy_ had been destroyed and they were now lifeless bodies floating in the purgatory of space.

 

She didn't sit up from where she was sprawled on the bed, looking smaller than Garrus had ever seen her. She was by no means a tall human, even a bit on the short side for a female, but whatever it was that had made her seem larger than life had vanished on Thessia.

 

“You know it's been more than a year since we last fucked.”

 

Whatever he had expected her to say to break this silence, it certainly hadn't been that.

 

He ended up coughing uncomfortably, choking on whatever Traynor-inspired platitude he had been prepared to say, when he came to the uncomfortable realization that she was right. Not that it should have surprised him: the growing list of friendly casualties and a never-ending armada of Reapers killed one's mood faster than receiving an inter species sex talk from an overzealous Salarian.

 

(Spirits, but Garrus would give anything to have the eccentric bastard back on the ship.)

 

Eloquent as ever, Garrus could only respond, “...Is that so? And here I was, thinking I'm the only one counting the months of our dry spell.”

 

“More than one year Galactic Standard. Something like fourteen months Earth time,” Shepard mumbled, mostly to herself. She sounded as if she was in a daze, lost somewhere in the depths of space, abandoning her corporeal form before she could experience its demise. To his surprise, she sat up on the edge of the bed, her eyes and scars glowing a faint red in the dark as she stared straight at him, like she was only just realizing she wasn't alone. “I know how fond you are of Earth time.”

 

Her voice was soft, the gentle teasing a melancholic purr that seduced him into stepping forward, his feet betraying the hesitation that gripped his chest. Standing over her, the desire to trace the line of her jaw became so overwhelming that he lifted his gloved hand, only to pause halfway in the small space between them. He could see her glowing eyes staring up at him intently and not for the first time, he missed her bright green irises, blamed the war for the stress it had inflicted on her. “It's not too late to adjust the _Normandy's_ settings. Tell EDI it's EST from here on out. Schedule a mission and watch as your resident turian charges hours late into battle and takes all the credit for saving your sorry ass.”

 

The benefit of no longer working under Cerberus was that he didn't have to adjust his internal clock to damned Earth time. It had thrown him off when he had first boarded the resurrected _Normandy_ after his stint on Omega: “I'd like to follow up on your injuries at 0800 hours,” Dr. Chakwas had said. Failing to set the time on his omni-tool from Galactic Standard, Garrus had found himself hours late to a polite, but tight-lipped Dr. Chakwas in the med bay.

 

Then the war with the Reapers came and at least someone had the sense to run the _Normandy_ on Galactic Standard.

 

“So you want me to schedule missions on Earth time so you can show up late and play hero? You trying to use this to get brownie points, Vakarian?” Shepard asked, her light tone masking the weight that hung in the air between them.

 

“You have a reputation for saving the galaxy, downed vigilante turians included,” Garrus retorted. Unconsciously, he felt the tingling of the scars that lined the right side of his face, nearly shuddering as he recalled the impact of the rocket that had nearly taken him out. “I need to level the playing field if I'm ever going to return the favor.”

 

But at the mention of 'saving', he could see her visibly withdraw, her lips forming a tight line. “...There's no saving any of us. Not this time.”

 

“Shepard...”

 

She reached for his half-raised hand, bringing it up to cradle it against her cheek. Her face felt so tiny in his palm, the depth of her cheek sharper than he remembered. It made him ache as he became reminded once again of how long it had been since they shared any intimacy and how much had changed in that time.

 

It wasn't lost on him how easily his talons slipped over the dampness staining her cheeks.

 

“I've missed you,” she whispered.

 

Her voice carried like a plea, the unspoken regret drowning his pride in the desire that rippled beneath his careful grip. He could feel the heat of her hand that covered his, contrasting the coolness of her wet cheeks, and he felt caught between a battle of flame and ice, a casualty in her own self-destruction.

 

There was some truth to her confession, something he had learned long ago: there was no saving Shepard from herself.

 

“I've missed you, too,” he found himself admitting.

 

“All this time, we could have been fucking like rabbits,” Shepard said. “Who knows how much longer we have.”

 

There was something in her defeatist tone that made his chest burn.

 

“I'd like to think what we did was more than just 'fucking',” he responded.

 

He wanted to be callous, to hide the hurt at the flippant way she addressed their past relationship. Once, he could handle it. But her reaffirmation of how little she thought of what they had only twisted the knife deeper into the wound she had opened when she'd said she “needed time”.

 

But he sounded as lost and defeated as her, his voice carrying more confusion than malice.

 

He shouldn't have been surprised when he felt her hands snake up his armor, seeking the clasps that held it in place. It echoed of the first time they were intimate, the desperation that had them seeking each other with the bets placed high on a one-way trip through the relay. Garrus hadn't really believed they wouldn't make it back. Hell, death hadn't been enough to stop Shepard the first time. But maybe they had used the threat of 'no return' to stop dancing around each other, to give in to the sparks that burst into a flame whenever they so much as grazed hands or exchanged shy glances.

 

But this was something entirely different, while being all the same. There was a different kind of desperation to Shepard's method, a despondency that had her gripping to him like a lifeline.

 

His talons grasped her wrist, forcing her to pause and gaze up at him.

 

He didn't want her. Not like this.

 

“Garrus...”

 

The way his name rolled off her tongue was like honey to his ears. And as she looked up at him, her eyes seeking understanding, he heard the unspoken word that lingered on her parted lips.

 

_Please..._

 

Like moth to a flame, he flew close enough to feel his wings burn.

 

*

 

The aftermath had always been, in many ways, more intimate for them. Naked and exposed to the cool air of the cabin, Garrus would trace the contours of her skin, the scars that wove a map of their numerous missions across the galaxy. Each time he was inside Shepard, he shed away another piece of his armor. But it was here that he let her see him at his most vulnerable, the arm that snaked around her waist and held her close in a desperate prayer to the spirits that they don't take her away from him, at least not yet.

 

It was quite different than what he was experiencing now.

 

Her back was to him, her naked skin a shield against the consequences of her own manipulations. The space between them became this bottomless chasm that he didn't dare scale. He knew from the moment he had finished and she slipped to the far end of the bed, resetting the terms of her forced isolation, that he had fallen once again for the enigma that was Jane Shepard.

 

He'd thought defeat left a bitter taste in his throat. Nothing tasted as vile as shame.

 

He wanted to say something but he knew anything he said would reveal a truth he wasn't quite ready to accept.

 

Sitting up, Shepard tensed on the edge of the bed. She seemed prepared to say something, anything to break the stifling heaviness that settled in the cabin. Instead, she settled for the softest of sighs.

 

Garrus didn't move. Not when he heard her move around her cabin, gathering her clothes and throwing them back on. For all that her moaning and desperate whimpers had made him feel wanted, he was suddenly a stranger in her cabin, intruding on her moment of privacy. He could feel the humiliation settle on his scales, heating the back of his neck.

 

At least she seemed to share that sentiment, still refusing to look at him.

 

“EDI?” she said, walking over to the stairs at the edge of the bedroom. “Tell everyone to meet in the War Room.”

 

“Will that be all, Commander?”

 

“Yes. ”

 

“Logging you out.”

 

He wanted to let her walk away from him, to let himself stew in a misery of his own making. Let the 'what ifs' remain 'what ifs', leave her game to be played for another day, when she was once again desperate for distraction and he was craving her attention. Everything was coming to an end, so why not let their flame burn them before it burned out?

 

But Garrus was never one to not stick out his own neck onto the chopping block. He was tired of her indecision, tired of his evasion. He was just tired.

 

“So...this is it, then.”

 

He looked up at her, as naked as she was clothed, letting his talons sink into the soft mattress he would once again estrange himself from. He could see her shoulders tense, hands gripping at her side. He remembered his foolish attempts at complimenting her hair. He never hated seeing the back of her head as much as he did now.

 

“You have a meeting to get to, Vakarian,” she said, coolly.

 

Her dismissive tone shattered any expectation he had of getting a more definitive answer. Then again, her dismissal should have been all the answer he needed.

 

“Right. I wouldn't want to keep the commander waiting,” he shot back.

 

The one thing about being this acquainted with her back was that she didn't have to watch him as he dressed. He already felt like a fool. At least this way, he could pretend some of his dignity remained intact.

 

As he clipped his armor in place, he found his eyes wander to where she remained standing by the edge of the stairs. In all this time, she hadn't moved.

 

“I...” she began, ending with a shaky sigh.

 

He didn't want her to say anything. He wanted to pretend that whatever had broken them could be fixed. They were going to die anyway, so what was another day of his delusions?

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

There was no clarification but he didn't need it. Garrus knew Shepard, knew her like the scars etched into his scales. And the one thing she had never apologized for was dragging him into whatever hell she had carved for herself.

 

“We both know you're not,” he said, quietly.

 

His words carried like a well-timed shot, tearing through her shields. He could see her flinch at his words but it was her pride that kept her on her feet as she dragged herself out of this war zone they had created, taking her to the door of her cabin.

 

“I expect you in the war room in 10 minutes,” she said, before leaving him to bleed out on the battlefield.

 

If there was a crack in her voice, he decided he hadn't heard it. Garrus Vakarian didn't weep for dead legends.

 


	2. The Beginning of the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He gripped her as if he was afraid that she was slipping into a dark chasm, held her in a way that let her know he was either pulling her out alive or falling with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the story officially earns its M rating. Please be aware of the warnings before continuing. This chapter contains more emotional manipulation and sex.
> 
> I'd like to thank [Mordinette](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mordinette/pseuds/Mordinette) for beta reading this chapter. Her continued encouragement has helped me flesh out this story and I wouldn't be posting this without her support.

She wasn't quite certain when it had started. Maybe on Virmire, when tensions ran high and she was unable to talk Wrex down. Each shot fired from Ashley's gun made Shepard a little more sick to her stomach and resent how her assignment to take down Saren had brought a bit of the worst out of everyone on her crew. If that resentment led her to assigning Ashley to die on Virmire, well...Shepard could always rationalize her ire at the insubordination as “for the sake of the mission.”

 

Maybe it was after Project Lazarus. When Shepard awoke to the light, glowing scars patterning her cheeks, she saw for the first time her decisions mapped on her skin. It reinvigorated every impulse to shoot a merc in the back, shove an unarmed criminal out a window, and torture an informant into giving her crew member invaluable information. Her only saving grace was that when it came time for any of her team to pull the trigger on an adrenaline driven mission for vengeance, she always talked them down. In some ways, that was her way of redeeming herself after her failure to Wrex.

 

Maybe it was after Earth. Six months in lock down and it wasn't until a city on her parents' home planet was devastated that anyone in power decided to take her seriously. Even then, her traversing across the galaxy to rally the other races for their cause was more political bullshit, with leaders moving their people like pawns between the systems, more invested in their personal gain than the threat coming to destroy them all. Maybe it made the decision to corrupt the genophage cure a little easier, especially after Urdnot Wreav had flirted with the idea of waging his own war after the Reapers were defeated. Maybe it made her less forgiving when she allowed the quarians to destroy the geth because she'd be damned if she was about to let a race of synthetics, with a history of willingly siding with the Reapers, anywhere near their fleets.

 

Regardless of its origins, there was some point at which Command Shepard had stopped giving a fuck and just became ruthless.

 

With every new scar that blistered through the layer of thin, pale skin, Shepard saw the disappointment in Liara's eyes as her once asari lover distanced herself from the commander. She saw the way her crew stepped on eggshells around her, heard the whispers as they questioned her choices and wondered if this was the kind of person they should rally behind, if victory was worth the cost of the trail of bodies she was leaving behind.

 

She saw Garrus every time she closed her eyes, his talons gripping her tightly as he pushed inside of her, his breath a whisper that teased the scars that marred her skin, as if willing her to heal with his touch alone. He gripped her as if he was afraid that she was slipping into a dark chasm, held her in a way that let her know he was either pulling her out alive or falling with her.

 

And if Shepard had to push him off of her when he'd finished, roll away so he couldn't see the prickling of salt stinging her eyes, it was so she wouldn't drag him down with her.

 

She knew what she'd become. Each word lined with cold malice that she directed at him was not just her saving him from her corruption, but making it easier for him to let her go.

 

She'd seen Cortez, seen how grief could destroy a person, make it hard to put themselves back together when there were no more missions to distract from the hollow void left from the loss.

 

She knew she was going to die. And she'd rather die hated than let Garrus grieve for all that she wasn't.

 

*

 

Three weeks since she'd given in, her lowest point in this war making her say “to hell with it,” and she'd silenced that angry voice in her head telling her to stop being so damn selfish. Three weeks since she all but had told Garrus to go to hell after using his body to ignore the bitter ache of defeat that had left her despondent until Horizon. Three weeks of benching him on every mission, avoiding him to the point of skipping meals and locking herself in her cabin if only so she wouldn't have to see the look of betrayal on his face.

 

It had been three weeks and she'd somehow sunk farther into her defeatist shit and if she was halfway to drunk as they headed towards the Illusive Man's home base, ready to take back the stolen data and launch a final assault on Earth, could anyone really blame her?

 

“So this is how the great Commander Shepard prepares for our last night in this God forsaken galaxy?” a voice said, startling her out of her thoughts. Her fingers tightened on the glass of wine she was holding, the fuzziness in her head becoming a steady trill. She leaned back on the dark sofa, staring up at the crewmate she hadn't even heard come in. “I kind of miss the days of your 'Let's give 'em hell' speeches and 'Shoot first. Shoot twice if it doesn't kill 'em' attitude. Are you seriously planning on charging into battle after drinking half a battle of...”

 

He bent down to lift the bottle of wine, his subvocals rumbling as he scrutinized it. “Batarian Shard Wine? Well, at least you'll go out in style.”

 

Shepard lifted the glass to her lips, draining the last of her wine. “Relax, Vakarian. That's what's left over from when I had lunch with Kaidan last month. I've only had one glass.”

 

His blue eyes dropped to the nearly empty bottle of Mont Milgrom whiskey and used tumbler on the small coffee table. “And the whiskey?”

 

She rolled her eyes. “Inconsequential.”

 

“I seem to recall you saying you were 'too busy' when I asked to meet up on the Citadel. Something about, 'up to your knees in meetings'?”

 

“I was,” she said, her lips tightening in a firm line. She could feel irritation prickle in her buzzed stupor. “I had to help Jordan Noles track batarian diplomatic codes. Then I had to meet with the asari councilor. Almost didn't make it to lunch.”

 

“Yet you found the time for him. And Cortez, when we docked there last week. Liara also mentioned something of an 'enlightening talk with the commander'.”

 

“I didn't realize you two were on speaking terms,” Shepard shot back, attempting to grab the bottle of wine Garrus had placed back in front of her. His talons made it there first and he was already moving the bottle out of her reach. Angrily, she swiped the bottle of whiskey and poured the remainder into her tumbler, ignoring the low growl she heard.

 

“You told her it was over between you two,” Garrus added. If she'd expected Garrus to be happy about the end of her 'relationship' with Liara (as far as Shepard was concerned, it had been over since Illium), she would have been disappointed at the embittered pitch in his vocals. “Were you planning on saying the same to me?”

 

Silence.

 

“Commander...”

 

She threw back the whiskey, reveling in how it burned down her throat, dulled her until she could numb herself from the guilt eating away at her.

 

“Shepard...”

 

She could hear the tiniest of cracks, feel the glass threaten to shatter from the vice grip she held it in.

 

“Jane...”

 

She wasn't sure what broke first: the tumbler bursting against the wall of the cabin or whatever fragment of self-control she had left. Her eyes flared scarlet as the rage coursed through her veins and in moments, she was on her feet, staring down (or up, damn his height) an unimpressed turian.

 

“If you're looking to pick a fight, save it for after we've dealt with the damn Reapers!” she hissed. “I don't have time for this.”

 

Her hands trembled at her sides, balled into fists. Though she kept her voice low, there lay an underlying warning for him to stop pushing this.

 

“How many times have I heard that one?” Garrus demanded, stepping into what little space she had. His height was imposing compared to her smaller stature, but she could already see his cracks showing with the vicious glare she fixed him. “What's it going to be next? Too busy with cleanup to see me? Too damn distracted with whatever suicide mission Hackett throws at you next to answer a message? Too preoccupied with being Commander Jane Shepard that you can't be bothered to tell me you don't want me anymore?”

 

The words crackled like static in the air between them, a mine waiting to detonate as both of them stubbornly kept their foot on the shell. Even with the haze of alcohol adding a slight spin to her vision, she could make out the pattern of irregular scales peeking above his blue tunic, could breathe in his earthy scent, he was standing so close to her. It was intoxicating in a way that alcohol failed to be, a temptation dangled in front of her that was hers for the taking.

 

She heard his accusation, with a clarity that shouldn't have been possible after that much whiskey. And though she didn't deny it, the ache between her thighs screamed at how wrong he was.

 

“If you're so damn sure you've got me figured out, then why don't you march your ass back out that door, Vakarian?” she whispered, her voice more husky than she intended.

 

_Leave,_ she wanted to say. But she knew she couldn't.

 

“You know that's not how this works,” Garrus said, his vocals echoing like a purr, setting her blood on fire. Maybe unconsciously, his hand trailed over her arm, lingering close enough that she could feel his heat but not quite touching her. She could see it in the way he failed to control himself, the desire that had him reach for her when he should have held back. His eyes begged for release from this torturous game she made him play but she knew that unless she said the words, he wouldn't be leaving her cabin.

 

“Garrus,” she whispered, snaking her arms around his neck. His name was the apology she was too proud to voice, admonishment of her own failure.

 

He sighed, lowering his forehead until it was pressed to hers, the rumble in his chest both his consent and his defeat.

 

And like Icarus, she'd flown too close to the sun and was now plunging towards the earth.

 

His mouth was coarse, both foreign and familiar, as she pressed her lips to his. Her hand cupped the scarred side of his face, a force of habit she found hard to break in their intimate moments. Feeling the maimed plates beneath her fingers awoke a possessiveness in her, made her own scars singe, at the reminder of how even the hardest of shells could be pierced. He may have been all rough edges, but her edges were sharper, piercing him in places only she knew, leaving scars only she could see. She could feel the shame fester inside of her but she buried it some place deep as she shed his tunic, running her hands over his exposed carapace.

 

She was rewarded with a low growl, his sharp talons careful as her shirt was discarded and she was left bare from the waist up. When he dipped his head and she felt his tongue slide over her protruding collarbone, an audible shiver tickled over her skin. His attention didn't end there, a hand sliding up over her waist to cup one of her breasts. Her nails broke flesh, digging into the back of his neck, as a breathy gasp passed through her lips.

 

It was not long before she was pushing him back onto the bed, crawling into his lap and straddling him as her lips found his. She claimed him in the only way she would allow, taking his body to chase the uncertainty that lingered in her mind. Her hands were stained red, blue, and green from all the blood she had shed and now they were tracing up his harder flesh, inking an invisible trail of her shame, making him sink with her one final time. She ground down on the covered bulge that pressed into her thigh, whimpered when one of his talons nicked her waist by accident. The scratch would heal, unlike the glowing scars that had ripped apart her flesh.

 

“You're wrong,” she said, her hand snaking down between them to trace over the thin material covering his erection. “About me not wanting you.”

 

He shuddered under her touch, leaning back on his elbows. She had him trapped between her legs and the mattress, his secrets revealed to her in the faint shudder that rocked his hips into her hand, in his eyes that lingered too openly on hers. He gave himself to her in just a glance and all she ever gave back was the promise of getting off.

 

“Is this all you want?” he asked, a thick vibration in his voice.

 

Her hand had slipped into his pants, grasping him firmly. It was a battle of dominance that had been won the moment he stepped into her cabin. Maybe they both had known there was only ever going to be one outcome when they were alone together.

 

But his question attempted to break the parameters she had set, tear the shields she had carefully erected. She heard the real question underlying the trepidation in his voice.

 

“If you're taking requests,” she whispered, pausing to gently nibble at the sensitive skin on his neck. “I want to fuck you into the mattress.”

 

He didn't acknowledge her deflection, instead falling into a careful silence as they shed the rest of their clothing. When his hands grasped her waist, it was with a gentleness she could never be bothered to show him. When he nuzzled her neck, it was with affection that could only be named in one word, a word Shepard refused to even demonstrate in how roughly she pushed him back down on the pillows and forced her body down on his erection.

 

She was as ruthless in bed as she was in battle, the burn of him filling her, causing both a pained and pleasured trill to shoot up her spine. She cried out and gripped his waist tight enough to leave marks in the sensitive scales, giving her body little time to adjust before she began moving her hips. Each time she moved, she could feel his outer shell scrape against her inner thighs and knew she would need a healthy layer of omni-gel to heal the chafing. But knowing her, she wouldn't bother. If this was to be her final battle, then she wanted to be reminded of having him once more each time her armor rubbed against the rashes lining the inside of her thighs.

 

It was all heat and explosions, her hips moving in tandem with his, setting off a chain of blasts that began pooling in her abdomen. The blunted ends of his talons marked up her skin, drawing from her the most salacious of gasps and moans, his name the closest she'd ever come to prayer. It was tumbling from her lips and in their union, she became undone, her thighs clenching him tightly as she reached for the stars.

 

“Garrus,” she cried out, unable to hold on any longer and plunging into a sea of blue.

 

There was so much of herself that she exposed in this moment of vulnerability, enough that Garrus was falling with her, clinging to her as they both began their descent. She was breathing into his neck, trembling as she was rushing towards the ground, bracing for the impact. His talons carded into her hair, letting her know that he had her, and it was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears.

 

“Jane,” he whispered in a soothing voice. And there was something so intimate in the way he said a single word, it made her shake a little harder.

 

Collapsing on the mattress beside him, Shepard didn't protest when an arm came around her waist. There was a moment's hesitation before he pressed into her back, maybe half expecting her to pull away from him. Instead, they lay together in silence, his breath tickling her shoulder, cooling the droplets of sweat that lingered on her skin. And for not the first time, in her post-coital delirium, there was a small, stubborn voice at the back of her head that wanted her to confess the only words that mattered to them.

 

But as the minutes passed and the quiet became a deafening roar of unspoken discontent, the doubt of seeing tomorrow rippled a frenetic pulse that settled like a cold wave in the pit of her stomach. They no longer had the luxury of comfortable silence, though they both stubbornly clung to the illusion that they weren't choking on all that remained unsaid.

 

It was Garrus who came up for air first.

 

“You never answered my question,” he whispered, his vocals vibrating against her ear.

 

That cold wave burst forth until ice flowed through her veins. She didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to have to say the truth that defied the beating of her own heart.

 

“What question?” she asked. She wasn't sure if it was her continued avoidance of the topic or a sudden bout of masochism that egged him into saying it.

 

She could feel him still behind her and it was a while before he could bring himself to ask, “...Is it over between us?”

 

The arm around her waist tightened, a pathetic attempt to hold onto whatever they had left. Her prolonged silence dragged the truth out into the open. All that was left was the confirmation she hadn't been willing to give.

 

“You know how I play, Garrus,” she said, coolly. Another sad attempt at deflection. “High risk, high reward. That's always been my style.”

 

“We both know you're a terrible dancer, Shepard,” Garrus responded, his mandibles clicking against her ear. “So stop dancing around the question. Either this is worth the risk or it's not.”

 

The thing about turians was that you didn't so much as hear their frustration as you felt it in the vibrations of their voice. And Shepard could hear the frustration, hurt, and anger from earlier resurface. She could hear how sick he was of her games, of waiting as the few messages he'd sent her were ignored, as he watched her return from every mission, more bruised and bloodied for becoming more reckless in her tactics. She rushed into every battle no longer entertaining the thought of making it out alive.

 

Yet he couldn't know the source of the anger that compelled her to fight against the idea of 'us'. Her anger was a fury that threatened to consume them both, that dictated every avoided attempt of his affection but did not hesitate to use it when she was brought down and needed the adrenaline to rush back out into the war zone.

 

They were angry because they both wanted the same thing. But unlike him, Shepard had already made peace with what they could never have.

 

With a frustrated sigh, he pulled away from her, settling on the opposite end of the bed. It was a long time before Shepard swallowed the heavy bubble that had formed in her throat and felt the words slip through her lips.

 

“It's not,” she finally said, her voice sounding thick to her ears. Her chest felt cold and hollow as she reiterated what she meant. “It's not worth the risk.”

 

She couldn't look at him as her words cut through him, didn't want to see the damage she had wreaked. Lies and manipulation had become second nature as she negotiated alliances, and sometimes she wondered if Udina would have been proud of how slippery she'd become. Yet there was nothing but wholehearted truth in her answer, a kind of truth that she had no intention of explaining.

 

_I'm not going to risk leaving you behind._

 

She saw Steve Cortez replaying his dead husband's last video again and again. She saw Kolyat gripping the prayer book tightly as Thane finally passed. Oriana crying over Miranda's body...

 

Shepard had seen enough grief. She didn't want her death to add to it. So if it meant keeping everyone at arm's length, that was what she was going to do.

 

She didn't look at Garrus as he began dressing, ready to commit yet another walk of shame to the battery. For the last time. The finality of it all made the air in her cabin too hard to breathe and suddenly she was falling over Alchera again, choking in the vacuum that was space.

 

“Good luck on Chronos Station, Commander,” Garrus said. In the quiet of her cabin, his voice seemed to echo, lacking its usual levity. “Make sure to put a bullet through that bastard's eyes. For all of us.”

 

She blinked away the prickling sensation behind her eyes, sitting up and forcing a halfhearted smile. “I'll let him know Vakarian sends his regards before I pull the trigger.”

 

For an awkward moment, they remained staring at each other. In the limbo that had been the complicated status of their relationship, it had been easy to avoid one another, often welcomed. But they both knew that once Garrus stepped into that elevator, that would be it. And like most creatures of habit, both were too reluctant to make the first step towards change.

 

“For what it's worth, Commander, I...”

 

He shuffled uncomfortably, unable to bring himself to say the same words that resonated beneath the farce of indifference she expressed so casually in their parting. He looked at her and it was there in his eyes. They shone with hope that she wouldn't indulge, seeking affirmation that she must have felt the same, if only briefly, at some point in their relationship.

 

_...I can't..._

 

When she didn't say anything, he coughed awkwardly. “I, uh, guess it doesn't matter now. Goodnight, Commander.”

 

Each step that carried him away from her, that created galaxies between the decks of the _Normandy_ , shattered the calculated apathy she had projected in their last moments. She stepped uneasily to her feet, seeking the only solace she would find in the darkness of her cabin.

 

Broken glass stuck to her bare feet, the remnants of an argument committed to a memory that was quickly reaching its expiration. The wine she poured down her throat became her medicine, dulling the ache that ripped her from the inside out, numbing her until she curled up on the couch, the cool leather catching the droplets that trickled silently off her chin.

 

The empty bottle of Batarian Shard Wine rolled across the cabin floor.

 

Icarus had finally crashed.

 


	3. Priority: Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn't help it if he spent longer than he should questioning when he went from a character in Shepard's story to an obstruction that was blocking the path she was hell-bent on treading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost at the end! Thank you for all the wonderful comments you've left. I am doing my best to finish editing this story so I can post the final chapter soon. The narrative has shifted stylistically but I try to keep it interesting while also borrowing bits of dialogue from the last part of the game. There's a lot more canon-divergence in this chapter, though it follows the basic objectives of Priority:Earth.
> 
> Nothing but gratitude for my lovely beta reader, [Mordinette](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mordinette/pseuds/Mordinette) for her excellent advice and never-ending patience. She's the reason this went from a one-shot to a multi-chapter story and she's given me nothing but encouragement. I recommend checking out her stories if you're looking for something good to read!

Earth was no better off than Palaven by the time the _Normandy_ arrived for the final assault. The space surrounding Sol's terrestrial planet was filled with gunfire and debris, the crux of the airships welcomed by certain death as they created the delay needed to make the Plan work. And spirits, what a plan it was.

 

Garrus had only been half-surprised when an irate Commander Shepard had returned from Cerberus headquarters, blood spattered across her armor. She had mumbled something about almost being taken down by “that fucker Kai Leng” before reporting that the Citadel was the catalyst. This was the first unexpected development that threw a wrench in their plan.

 

The next was the Hades Cannon Anderson had asked them to take out. London was overrun with Reapers and they were about to be thrown in the shit of it before they had a chance to go up against Harbinger. Garrus could only watch on with dismay as Shepard once again assembled a ground team that consisted of Vega and Javik.

 

“You sure this is the best strategy you've got?” Garrus asked.

 

The tension between them rose when Shepard's hand paused over the console, her eyes no longer focused on reviewing their war assets. It was only her and Garrus left in the war room, everyone else having left to suit up or begin whatever assignment Shepard had given them. This was the first time they found themselves alone together since their last tryst in her cabin.

 

There was a heaviness that had burrowed in his chest in the long months spent aboard the _Normandy_ , as he could only watch her drift farther from him. It seemed to live there permanently now and the finality of whatever had existed between them had made him numb to this final suicide mission. In some ways, he didn't want this war to end: any conclusion that didn't end with all of them dying horribly meant that he had to live with the fallout. And without a war to distract him, he would have too much time to remember all that him and Shepard were not.

 

“If you have a problem with the plan, take it up with Hackett back there,” she snapped, indicating to the vid comm. “Last I checked, it was all we've got.”

 

He could see the numbers running across the screen before her and it wasn't anywhere near what they had expected when they set out on the mass recruitment of the galaxy nearly a year before. If they didn't pull this off, the galaxy's best would be obliterated in a matter of days.

 

“I wasn't talking about _the plan_ ,” Garrus all but hissed back, his vocals vibrating with the same frustration written on Shepard's face, “I was talking about your strategy getting in there. Vega and Javik aren't known for playing it safe. Hell, you say 'Reaper', they charge in so fast, they end up with their shields down before they've taken a shot—”

 

“Don't you have something to calibrate, Vakarian?” Shepard interrupted, pushing herself away from the console. “If there's too much red tape for you here, you can always go back to the Citadel. Nobody's stopping you.”

 

He'd known Shepard to be insensitive. With a galaxy at war and most of its sentient species at each other's throats, there wasn't always time to play with friendly diplomacy. Sometimes, she had to say it like it was just to get the bickering to stop and let the gravity of impending doom forge loose alliances.

 

But that. Now, that just _hurt._

 

Deciding she had nothing further to say to him, she left him in the war room to suit up for the assault. He was once again grounded, a spectator to the living 'legend' who was humanity's last hope. He couldn't help it if he spent longer than he should questioning when he went from a character in Shepard's story to an obstruction that was blocking the path she was hell-bent on treading.

 

*

 

As expected, Shepard's ground team wasn't the best idea she'd ever had.

 

From what Garrus had heard over the chatter, they had been picked up after the cannon was disabled but their resident Prothean had nearly bled out on the battlefield. In fact, Vega had said it was a complete mess inside the shuttle and as soon as they reached the operating base, Javik was rushed off to the temporary medical ward. Garrus had only to see the look on Liara's face, as she darted past Primarch Victus and across the bridge, to know that the Prothean would not be heading back into the field anytime soon.

 

He could only imagine the ire in Javik's final moments if the last of his species died confined to a bed.

 

“ _Surrounded by primitives. Where's the honor in that?”_

 

Throw in another remark about the 'inferiority of asari medicine' and Garrus could easily picture Liara's clenched fists as she debated treating the onerous patient or using her biotics to ensure the extinction of the Protheans. Either way, if Javik had to go, he'd make the biggest damned fuss until he drew his last breath.

 

As Garrus continued coordinating turian forces from his side of the room, he hadn't noticed that Shepard had made her way up until he heard the Primarch voice his support for the assault. It was hard to focus with her at the edge of his line of sight, seeing her armor marred with dirt and the blood of fallen Reapers, knowing that her recklessness could just as easily have put her in Javik's place. It wasn't as hard as swallowing the thick lump in his throat and accepting that for every grenade she threw at him, he would come crawling out of the pits just to remain at her side.

 

She was already heading towards the bridge between the buildings, either not seeing or pretending she hadn't seen Garrus. His damaged ego was silenced as he followed her out, intent on continuing the conversation she had cut short on the _Normandy_.

 

“Commander—”

 

“We've got hostiles on the perimeter! Someone get on that gun!” a voice shouted.

 

Explosions erupted below, the tremors rattling the platform Garrus and Shepard were standing on. Shepard exchanged a quick glance with Garrus and it was almost painful how easily they understood each other. He was already pulling out his sniper rifle while she hopped on the turret.

 

“I've got your right side!” Garrus shouted, ducking behind the raised ledge and aiming at the first husk attempting to crawl up the wall to their right. He could hear the consistent rattle of the turret as Shepard turned it to their left and fired off at a Cannibal that exposed itself from cover.

 

“It's just like Noveria!” Shepard called over the roar of gunfire. Garrus was surprised to hear the hint of a smirk in her voice.

 

Thank the spirits that her days of driving a Mako were long behind them.

 

“No offense, Shepard, but I think you and I remember Noveria differently!”

 

How many times did they have to stop the Mako so they could disembark and Garrus could snipe the Reapers they had driven past? And that's not counting the multiple times Shepard had nearly driven the Mako off the cliff. It only added more levity to every time Garrus promised that he “had her six”.

 

“You trying to undermine my fantastic driving skills?” she demanded, blowing a husk into pieces.

 

Garrus ducked as a bullet sent from a Cannibal nearly caught the left side of his face. Today was not the day he wanted to decorate his plates with more scars.

 

“ _Fantastic_ isn't the word I'd use. _Fatalistic_ is the only way to describe why you would go over a cliff instead of around it!”

 

“The fastest way between two points is a straight line, Vakarian!” Shepard argued, unleashing a particular kind of wrath on the Cannibal that had nearly shot him. Garrus almost felt appreciated for the amount of bullets that riddled its corpse, if he hadn't reasoned that Shepard had enough incentive to keep him alive so he could prevent them from getting flanked.

 

“Pretty sure whoever said that wasn't accounting for vertical obstacles in the way!”

 

With his side cleared, Garrus shifted his rifle to the left wall and took out a husk that was halfway over the battlement. It slumped over the ledge, only to have its lower torso blown off a moment later.

 

“I had that!” Shepard complained, shifting the turret once more to the center of the battle zone below. Garrus had to wait until she took out another husk before his voice could carry over the gunfire.

 

“Sure you did, Shepard! Just like you had this one!”

 

He sniped another husk crawling up the left wall, satisfied as it tumbled back down onto the hard concrete.

 

“Always stealing my thunder! You couldn't just let me have this one, could you!” Shepard teased.

 

With the last of the Reapers now rotting across the street below, she hopped off the turret and dusted off her armor. All it seemed to do was smear more of the dust into the dried blood.

 

“We both know I'm the better shot,” Garrus said, though he was unable to hide the trepidation in his voice. It reminded him of the invitation she had ignored just weeks before, when he had hoped to clear the air between them.

 

“One of these days, I'll have to hold you to that,” Shepard replied, lacking any earnestness in her promise. Hell, if they both survived this, Garrus wondered if he would ever be more than a reluctant acquaintance she called up for political leverage...that is, if he found himself in a position where he held any political power.

 

There was a nostalgia to the ease at which they fought together, at the smooth banter that only reminded him how well they fit together, that it made the starkness of their sudden estrangement resurface rapidly when she began to turn away from him. Each step she took across the bridge felt like she was crushing another piece of him that he wore so carelessly on his sleeve, another bullet breaking through those shields she had disabled on Omega.

 

“It was good fighting beside you again, Vakarian,” she called back. “At least you haven't gotten rusty.”

 

Her dismissal was obvious but Garrus knew if they were going to make this, he needed to dish out a healthy dose of insurrection.

 

“Shepard, wait!”

 

It almost shocked him at how abruptly she stopped. He was so used to her walking away from him, he couldn't pinpoint what was different this time in the urgency at which he had said this. Her back straightened and the careful way in which she turned her head, brows furrowed and lips set in a grim line, would have made anyone with lesser resolve cower under her intimidation.

 

“You've got something that needs saying, Vakarian?” she asked, her voice not without threat.

 

“You'll have to excuse my insubordination, Commander, but I'm calling you out on your bullshit,” Garrus began, carefully stepping toward her. If possible, the expression on her face became more grim. “We both know I was right back on the _Normandy_.”

 

He paused when only a few meters separated them, not quite thinking she would do it but choosing to play it safe and stay outside striking distance. Everything about her posture gave off a warning: she wasn't in the mood to have her authority questioned.

 

“I just saw one of my crew nearly killed by a Banshee,” she said, the calm in her voice shaking with barely contained rage, “and you think now's the time to play the 'I told you so' game? You've got a lot of fucking nerve.”

 

He knew the underlying threat was supposed to silence him. But Garrus wasn't backing down.

 

“That's not what this is about,” he argued. Though, deep down, a more vindictive side of him took a bit of sadistic pleasure in being right for once. “You need me.”

 

The vicious bark wasn't what he expected. When Shepard turned to face him, the laugh that had her shaking her head failed to reach her eyes. “We both know I haven't needed you for a long time, Garrus. Now's not the time to bring up your wounded pride.”

 

The way she had held him in their few instances of intimacy used to make him believe otherwise. But Garrus was done with giving credence to the wound that reopened every time she kicked him down just a bit lower.

 

“I wasn't talking about _us_ ,” he replied. And damn his time spent with a human crew, for making it harder to mask the tremor in his voice.

 

“Neither was I,” she said, her tone taking a sharper edge that she only seemed to revel in. “I don't need a sniper when I'm being flanked by husks and cannibals. I need brute force. You may have a decent reload time but I have no use for a single-shot weapon. So why don't you do us both a favor and _fall. In. Line.”_

 

She emphasized each word, lifting her gloved hand to point to the building behind him. It was clear that for her, this issue was already settled and he was merely wasting her time. “And that's an order, Vakarian. If you still remember how to follow those.”

 

With all the gunfire going off on the street below, it was easy for anyone to miss the sudden shifting of dust as a gray shape crawled over the battlement behind her. Garrus picked it up immediately in his sensor and though her red eyes flashed as she glared daggers at him, he was already pulling out his assault rifle and raising it in the space between him.

 

Her eyes flickered down to the weapon seemingly pointed at her, a new kind of anger contorting the vicious look on her face. “Really, Vakarian? You think pointing a gun at me is going to change my mind? You've got some fucking balls—”

 

She was silenced by the shot that rang through the air. It flew over her shoulder, striking the creature that had been ready to charge her. Falling only a meter from her boots, the mortally wounded husk was growling and clawing at the ground.

 

Shepard canted her head just enough to glower at it.

 

“I've got your six,” Garrus whispered, lowering the gun. “You know I'll always have your six.”

 

He hadn't meant to but even _he_ could hear the double-meaning in what he was saying. And with the flicker of knowing in her eyes, with the hesitation he could see on her face, he knew she heard it too.

 

“You need me,” he pressed on once more.

 

Turning away from him, she cursed loudly as she brought the heel of her armored boot down on the head of the husk. Blood and bits of flesh stuck to her greaves but she was already storming off towards the next building to meet up with Anderson at the command center.

 

“You better not slow me down!” was all she said as she entered into the medical ward.

 

It wasn't until Garrus got over his initial shock of finally making it back on her team roster that he came to this startling revelation: Shepard hadn't flinched when she thought the bullet had been meant for her.

 

*

 

The taste of ash seemed to settle thick on her tongue, making every breath she inhaled stick to her throat. Rain drizzled from the sky, sticking to her hair and armor and making the air taste somehow more acidic. The wasteland that was London looked like the backdrop of a hellish nightmare, of fire and brimstone as demons descended from the sky.

 

But it wasn't the demons of Christian lore that came to destroy civilization. It was something far older, more ancient, that tore up the ground with its beam and set everything it touched ablaze: Harbinger.

 

Shepard pivoted to the right as the red laser singed a deep groove in the path she had been running. The heat burst against her armor, causing her barrier to flicker, but otherwise didn't interrupt the mad dash she was making to the Conduit.

 

An armored vehicle to her left burst into flame as it was struck by Harbinger.

 

God help them, this was where she was going to die.

 

The ground rumbled as the rain fell harder and her feet nearly slipped on the rocky surface. She stumbled a few steps but found her footing when a steady, three talon hand gripped her shoulder. With everything exploding around them, she had to battle both the anger and fear in her heart for having been weak enough to give in to the stubborn turian and bring him along for what may be their final ride.

 

“We're not even halfway there!” she shouted, rushing forward a few steps in front of him. Her legs ached, her chest ached, her muscles were ready to give in and her body ready to collapse if only for a moment's rest before she was incinerated. She was operating on pure adrenaline and the weight of expectation that the entire galaxy seemed to have for her to fix everything. Again.

 

One of the vehicles attempting to get closer to the Conduit was suddenly struck hard by the beam. It flipped into the air as Shepard was running towards it and she cried out in surprise, slipping to the ground to duck out of its way. Time seemed to slow as her matted hair stuck to her face and her eyes widened as the airborne vehicle slammed towards Garrus and Vega.

 

Dust and rubble burst through the air on impact, clouding the area around them. Shepard was already back on her feet, dashing around the vehicle for any sign of her companions.

 

She nearly sobbed when she found Garrus struggling to get up, a deep wound in his right leg staining his soiled armor with dark blue blood. The impact seemed to have broken his shields and forcing him to continue toward the Conduit, completely unprotected and injured, was guaranteed suicide.

 

“We need to get him to cover!” Shepard grunted out, throwing one of Garrus' arms over her shoulder and attempting to help him stand. Luckily, Vega seemed mostly unscathed and assisted her by helping Garrus on his other side.

 

“Jesus, Scars, you've been really going to town on those dextro-rations,” James complained.

 

“The extinction of the galaxy as we know it has a way of making you eat your stress,” Garrus shot back, a pained rumble underlying his attempt at mirth. For all they knew, Harbinger's next beam was their death sentence and their last words would be jabs at the turian's weight. There was something so achingly fitting about it that it made Shepard want to both cry and reprimand the marine for the absurdity he managed to bring to every mission that had them knees deep in shit.

 

“That good? If it's better than the shit the commander keeps ordering, I'd have gone dextro for my last meal!” Vega added.

 

“You'd have been flat on your ass and stinking up the bathroom before we made it to Sol, Vega,” Shepard said, her usual no-nonsense attitude letting them know how inappropriate she found this banter. “And if you have a problem with the rations, take it up with EDI and Traynor!”

 

They ducked behind a broken vehicle as the beam burst overhead, striking not far from where they had regrouped. The ground shook violently and Garrus grimaced as they tried to set him down as comfortably as they could against the armored truck.

 

“For the record, I said I was stress eating. Never said anything about it tasting good,” Garrus said to James. “If you're feeling particularly self-destructive, I'd recommend anything other than the garbage I get served after a mission. I have some nice dextro-chocolate Dr. Michel gave me, if you're interested.”

 

“Is this really the time to be poisoning my crew with dextro-protein?!” Shepard said irritably, shaking her head. She felt the sudden flare of jealousy at the mention of the doctor but knew it was not her place to question what the hell had been going on with that. Not after everything she'd said and done to Garrus.

 

“Anything's better than facing that giant-ass robot!” James retorted.

 

The ground once again was assaulted with a tremor, dust and debris making the three of them nearly choke as Harbinger fired at anyone who went near the Conduit. Shepard wasn't sure if the stinging in her eyes was her struggling to breathe or the sudden realization that she was going to miss this camaraderie more than anything else.

 

_Only one of us needs to make it,_ she rationalized.

 

“Joker!” she shouted into her comm. “I need an evac! Now!”

 

Garrus' eyes flickered over to hers. “Shepard, what in the hell—”

 

“Get him onto the _Normandy_ when it arrives!” Shepard ordered.

 

James looked ready to argue but the words stuck in his throat when he saw the expression on her face. She knew he was bloodthirsty and wanted to stick it to the Reapers as much as every other soldier dying in this war zone. But if Shepard had to die today, there was only one thing she wanted. And if that meant removing Vega from combat and robbing him of vengeance, so be it.

 

Garrus, however, was having none of it.

 

“You're not leaving me behind, Shepard! Not this time!”

 

Shepard was already back on her feet, gripping her shotgun in both hands. She waited for the latest tremor to subside, eyes scanning the field in front of her to assess the best place nearby where she could duck into cover. She ignored Garrus' protests, unable to look at him as she tried to push aside the urge to stay back and carry him onto the _Normandy_ herself, if only to ensure that he was going to be out of harm's way.

 

She was about to make her move when Garrus grabbed her, forcing her to turn back and look at him. She could see how he struggled to stay on his two feet, wincing as he favored his left side. The surge of desperation she felt translated into anger as she shoved him hard enough to make him step back on his injured leg to keep his balance.

 

“I need to get to that Conduit! And you need to get the fuck out of here!” she yelled.

 

“And you've got to be kidding me!” Garrus yelled back. His vocals cracked with the same despair she felt, his desire to see this mission through at war with her desire to keep him safe.

 

“Don't you dare argue with me, Garrus!” she threatened him. But for as much malice as she had hoped to muster, it came out as more of a plea.

 

“We're in this till the end and I am not leaving you to battle it out yourself!”

 

She tried to take a step back from him and he stubbornly took a step forward. She walked out of cover, hoping to make her point, and he followed her in as many steps, blood dripping from his armor. They were both exposed and he seemed intent on welcoming Harbinger's beam, if only to show her he was as relentless as she was stubborn.

 

“Get the fuck back there!” Shepard shouted, pointing to where James was still ducked behind the vehicle. “I warned you not to slow me down, Vakarian!”

 

The _Normandy_ had arrived, hovering only meters from where James was.

 

“For fuck's sake, Garrus, now's not the time for insubordination!”

 

There was a manic desperation in her voice, her authority slipping as she found herself nearly begging Garrus to save himself. Everywhere they looked, this battlefield was riddled with death, pieces of soldiers left to decay in the grime that rained down on them. She couldn't complete this mission if she knew his corpse would soon be joining them.

 

“If you die, I'm dying with you!” Garrus exclaimed, the intensity in his gaze hitting her like a shot between her eyes. “There's no Shepard without Vakarian!”

 

Garrus didn't have to say it. But it was as if he had. Everything he felt for her, contained in five words. It somehow felt more honest, more _them,_ than any other declaration he could have made in their final moments together.

 

_No..._

 

Her vision blurred as she watched him fight to close the distance between them, a final attempt at bridging the gap she had spent the last year building. Everything she had done had been to avoid this moment, to reduce the collateral her death would have on the people in her life.

 

Jane Shepard wasn't a demanding person. Despite the authority she commanded, she wasn't the kind of person who asked for personal luxuries or favors for all the shit she's been through to hold off this Reaper invasion.

 

But if she could ask the galaxy to give her one small thing, it was to make sure Garrus Vakarian made it out of this war alive.

 

She blinked back the tears that threatened to fall, her shotgun poised in her hands. Seeing the determination on his face, his casual acceptance of following her to a sure death, made her acknowledge a truth she had avoided for too long: she loved him with everything she had. It was twisted by her obsession to save him, corrupted the part of her that had embraced him in their dark, stolen moments until she was made colder by default. It helped her see through the choices that would let her selfishly claim this one victory: Garrus Vakarian would not make it anywhere near the Conduit. Not if she had anything to do with it.

 

She aimed her gun and fired.

 

Garrus collapsed to the ground with a cry, blood spilling out from the new wound in his left leg. He could no longer stand, the blood painting the earth marking yet another sin Shepard could add to her ledger. She had to swallow the disgust she felt at how low she had sunk.

 

“What the _fuck,_ Shepard?!” James demanded.

 

“I have no use for injured soldiers!” Shepard said, her voice ice cold. She couldn't look at the betrayal written all over Garrus' face. “Get him to the _Normandy_! Now, Vega!”

 

The murderous look James gave her was more than she deserved.

 

“Sure thing, _Commander!”_ he sneered.

 

She only gave herself a few moments to watch as Vega hoisted Garrus around his shoulders, his knees almost giving out from the added weight. Still, Garrus attempted to reach for her and Shepard had to turn away as she finally felt a few tears slip.

 

“Shepard!”

 

She ran.

 

She sprinted hard towards the Conduit, her vision muddied by teardrops and rain. She ran until she could no longer hear Garrus shouting her name, stumbling as her legs felt like they would burst from the exertion. She ran until a blinding light struck the ground in front of her and all she could feel was Harbinger's beam exploding across her armor.

 

Everything around her was burning, buried in a flashing sea of red.

 

And suddenly, she was descending into the cold black.

 

 


	4. Alea Iacta Est

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It will all be over soon became a promise as she ascended into the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end is finally here! It has been quite the experience playing a renegon Shepard and using fiction to put into words the struggles that a morally ambiguous heroine faces on her path to becoming the savior of the galaxy. I hope those that have been following this story find satisfaction in its conclusion. Or, if not satisfaction, understanding: it's hard to fix what is broken and some may be beyond repair. I will leave you with this cryptic message and look forward to any comments you may have.
> 
> Once again, thank you to [Mordinette](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mordinette/pseuds/Mordinette) for taking the time out of her own writing schedule to beta read and provide a necessary critique of what was working and not working for this story. Her insight helped make this story better than I could have hoped and it never would have made it beyond a few thousand words if it had not been for her encouragement.

Shepard awoke to the roar of Harbinger some time later, her armor shredded and her exposed skin covered with burns and mud. She shook off the fatigue that had her wanting to crawl back in the earth and welcome the cold expectation of her demise, the light before her a stubborn reminder that the galaxy was not through using her. As she forced her body to stand upright, she groaned out in pain. She felt like death, but it was with unshakable stubbornness that she ignored the agonizing torment her wounds inflicted on her each time she took a step forward.

 

Foot catching on a clump of raised earth, she righted herself as she dizzily approached the Conduit. She could hear the cries of the husks that charged her, their garbled sounds becoming white noise to the faint buzzing that blurred the world around her. With a shaking hand, she fired off a few rounds from her raised pistol, the weapon nearly slipping from her blood-covered grip. She stepped over the bodies of the fallen Reapers, eyes watering as she stumbled into the white glow. She could feel the light lift her, the tingling sensation like a lover’s kiss. _It will all be over soon_ became a promise as she ascended into the sky.

 

The stench of death and decay was her welcome aboard the Citadel as she staggered towards a prolonged ending to the destruction that followed her every decision. She could hear the beyond calling to her, weary eyes a passive observer to a friend succumbing to his mortality because she wasn't strong enough to save him. Anderson became another casualty her crew would some day add to the wall, her failure written in the weapon that still burned in her hand. She mourned him in the shot she fired into the Illusive Man's chest a moment later, her tears the blood that dripped from the fatal wound it left.

 

She had once thought vengeance bittersweet. Now, its taste had soured as she dropped to her knees, embracing the cold that began to fill her bones.

 

But the dead refused to let her rest, embodied in the holographic apparition of a young child. He once haunted her restless nights, now he walked among the living, tormenting her in his denial to let her leave the galaxy she had helped break.

 

She wanted to scream _No more_ when she was told that one last decision remained before the ghosts would let her sleep.

 

“It is time for a new solution,” the child-like hologram kept saying.

 

She was exhausted. She was running on empty. But most of all, she was done being the pawn that everyone moved across the chessboard.  
  


Fuck the Reapers. Fuck the Catalyst. Fuck the entire galaxy for needing the god damn threat of extinction to get their shit together.

 

They made her become everything she hated, a ruthless weapon. Her reward was the betrayal in her lover's eyes as she shred the last of her humanity and became the tool they had forged. Years of the Council's blissful ignorance that hardened her each time she took the fall for their inaction, and it was this weapon of their own making that would decide their fate.

 

The choice was an easy one. Her hand didn't hesitate when she gathered the last of her adrenaline and fired the kill shot.

 

She could hear the cries of the millions that had perished as her body was thrown back from the explosion. Death was the only friend she had ever known, whose tribute she paid every time she stepped on the battlefield. Today, he'd come to collect his final gift from her.

 

If she had to go down, at least it was in a blaze of glory.

 

*

 

In the three weeks since they had crashed on this planet, Garrus had a lot of time to reflect. Too much time, in fact. With limited power and calibrations being low on the list of repairs, he found he was spending most of his days between the battery and the med bay, a victim of his own head. London was on constant replay and some days, the weight of his rifle in his hands as he meticulously cleaned it for the umpteenth time remained the last barrier of resistance to giving in and firing a few rounds in the wall. He hadn't decided yet if it was grief or anger that fueled the violent thrumming of blood in his veins. On the days when he felt enslaved to the hollow throb in his chest, he wondered if he mourned the death of Shepard or the death of who he'd thought she was.

 

He hadn't remembered much after Vega had hauled his ass back on the _Normandy_. He recalled screaming Shepard's name, lost in a crazed delirium as his body buckled under the stress from his injured right side and left leg. The med bay periodically had come in and out of focus and at some points, he remembered the hard lines in Dr. Chakwas' face as she scrutinized his wounds, her brows furrowed.

 

“—don't have the supplies for this!”

 

She paced to the other side of the room, rifling through what little they had.

 

Garrus had been dizzy but he could just make out James hovering beside him, a strong pressure on his legs causing the turian's vocals to rumble with a low groan.

 

“With all due respect, ma'am, I'm not trained for this!” James shouted, worry etched on his face.

 

“Keep pressure on it, James, or he'll lose more than just blood!”

 

Garrus barely felt the anesthetic, his body slipping into shock. But something about the doctor's words clicked. In his mind's eye, he saw the red beam rip apart the ground and a woman fall to her knees, caught at the edge of the laser. He was suddenly gripping Dr. Chakwas, his wild eyes struggling to focus.

 

“Doctor, Shepard—”

 

“Settle down, Garrus,” she said, as gently as she could, bringing one of her bloodied hands to squeeze his gloved one reassuringly. He didn't miss the flicker of pain in the woman's eyes. “It'll all be over soon.”

 

He had awoken again some time later as the _Normandy_ violently shook. The lights had flickered and emergency protocols warned the crew to prepare for a crash landing. Garrus had luckily been strapped to the table or he would have gone flying across the room as Dr. Chakwas had.

 

 _Spirits, what's going on?_ was all he could wonder before slipping back into unconsciousness as the _Normandy_ crashed.

 

It was a long while before he managed to stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time, his body sore and his throat parched. A somewhat battered Dr. Chakwas later explained what had happened: Shepard had somehow made it onto the Citadel and activated the crucible. The resulting explosion had taken out the relay in the system they had ended up in, along with most of their engine.

 

There was trepidation in his voice when he asked the only question that floated in his mind.

 

“...and Shepard?”

 

The way the muscles tightened on the doctor's face told him all he needed to know. In an instant, he felt a kind of grief he had never experienced before, a clamminess that trickled into his joints. Everything felt as wrong as when Shepard had fired point blank at him with her shotgun, the coldness in her expression a nightmare he relived whenever he closed his eyes.

 

“I'm sorry, Garrus,” the doctor had said. “But it's my expert opinion that nobody could have survived that blast.”

 

He had hung his head, swallowing the sorrowed groan that threatened to vibrate in his throat. The sadness he had felt had been at war with the cruelty in their final time together, with the affection that faded each time his leg tingled and he once again felt the force of the bullet tearing through his armor. Even now, he struggled to make sense of who this woman was and why he'd ever felt anything for her at all.

 

His eyes drifted to the name placard sitting on the battery console. Traynor had brought it by earlier and shuffled awkwardly when Garrus had exchanged a confused look with her. The loss of EDI was still felt by the entire crew, with few being brave enough to approach Joker the handful of times he left the bridge to grab rations from the mess hall. He looked paler and thinner each time they saw him, a hardness now permanently set on his face.

 

But nothing compared to the strange mark Shepard's passing had left on everyone. Those on the crew who hadn't witnessed the controversial decisions and deception she had dished out during the war now mourned her the way they would a fallen legend, a savior of humanity. But for everyone else, who had seen how cruelty could beget the best of intentions...the marks she left on them were scars that would never quite heal.

 

He wasn't quite certain himself if, had she survived, he would have been able to look her in the eyes and see the same woman who had once meant everything to him.

 

“We're planning a service of sorts and...well, Kaidan thought you should be the one to say a few words,” Traynor explained.

 

“I don't think anything I'd have to say would do her justice,” he responded. It wasn't lost on him how easily those words felt like sarcasm on his tongue.

 

“Right. Yes. But, uh...”

 

He watched her brows furrow at the mental gymnastics she must have been doing, seeking out the right choice of words to persuade him. Undoubtedly, the crew must have drawn straws to send someone to unload this task on him. And poor Traynor was the casualty in their game.

 

_Tali would have been a better choice._

 

But the quarian had been working night and day with the engineers to repair the engine. And as much as Garrus had a tendency to soften his edges for his young squadmate, he knew how hard it was for her to work under these conditions and not be given the time to grieve, especially since her relationship with Shepard remained mostly undamaged up to the end. Shepard had given Tali Rannoch, at the cost of a geth fleet, and the few times Tali took a moment to have her rations in the mess hall, he could hear how she tried to hide her sniffling as she sat away from everyone else at one of the corner tables.

 

It wasn't like when Shepard had pulled a gun on Kaidan at the Citadel. Or when she dumped Liara unceremoniously after fucking Garrus in her quarters. Or when she told James that if he called her “Lola” one more time, she'd feed his balls to a krogan.

 

Tali, unlike the rest of them, still respected Shepard. She also suffered the most at the commander's passing.

 

Seeing Traynor continue her awkward shuffle, Garrus finally released a sigh.

 

“I'll think of something to say,” he relented.

 

Even in her death, he was still the one sent to deal with Shepard.

 

Traynor's expression brightened, though it did little to waver the sadness in her eyes. “Great! We'll be holding it at 1500 hours tomorrow afternoon.”

 

Garrus grimaced. “Earth time?”

 

“...the commander reset it before London...to help coordinate with the Alliance fleet...” Traynor added, quietly. “Major Alenko said he'll put us back on Galactic Standard, once communications are up.”

 

Traynor had left soon after, the relief in finishing her task evident in the relaxing of her shoulders. For a long time, Garrus had just stared at the placard. _Commander Shepard._ Somehow, he was supposed to put into words something to honor her memory.

 

Opening his omni-tool, he altered the settings to display both Galactic Standard and Earth Time. From beyond the grave, Shepard still managed to find ways to make his life more difficult, as if the scars she left on him were not enough. He knew there was only one way he would be able to ground himself, to find something worth saying about her without making her sound like a villain in her own story.

 

Pushing away from the console, he limped his way over to the elevator.

 

*

 

The captain's cabin was in more of a disarray than when he had last been inside it. Data pads and broken model ships littered the console space, the few mementos she had kept strewn across the floor. He had to step carefully when he walked into the living space, the pieces of a shattered wine bottle cracking under his boot. He paused in the middle of the room, a flood of memories hitting him like a dam when his eyes drifted to the unmade bed.

 

_...her hitched breath ghosted across his plates, nails digging into the sensitive scales at the back of his neck. He dragged his tongue along the line of hard bone connecting her shoulder to her neck, his name a prayer on her lips that had him aching for that sweet escape he would find between her thighs..._

 

It was too much.

 

He was shaking by the time he reached the door, his talons fisted at his side. He had to take a few breaths to calm the sudden panic that erupted in his chest. He could see her eyes the first time they were intimate, green and clear as the sea on Virmire, gazing up at him with a kind of adoration he had never known. Her hands had been gentle as they caressed his face plates, the shyness in her undamaged smile foreign to the permanent scowl she wore in her final days.

 

Afterwards, she had held him, whispering about nothing and everything. The mysteries of the galaxy unfolded as they lay together in the dark, no longer en route to the Collector base but creating worlds only _they_ could visit in the safety of her cabin. He had her two more times before they had to suit up, his hands mapping every part of her and committing it to memory, should this be their last fight. His last recollection from that night was the tender way she pressed her forehead to his as he stood where he was now, about to throw themselves at whatever the Collectors had in store for them.

 

Garrus inhaled, holding his breath before exhaling slowly.

 

There. That was the Shepard he had loved.

 

Once he collected himself, the desire to escape the cabin was buried under his resolve to do what he had come here for. He walked over to the desk, balancing his weight against it to take pressure off his still healing leg. The console was off, not deemed important enough to allot emergency power to it but some of the datapads still flickered notes and messages Shepard had been looking over before the attack.

 

As Garrus looked through them, his eyes scanning across words typed in foreign languages that his translator converted, he tried to get a sense of who Jane Shepard was, of the leader in her last moments of privacy before she was thrust headfirst into the flames. He felt a pang of guilt at how invasive this was, reading through her private messages, and had to remind himself that she was no longer alive to suffer the fallout of anything he would find.

 

To his surprise, the message open on the datapad was one he had sent to Shepard.

 

_Hey, Shepard. Thought you might want to escape this craziness. Meet me on the Citadel?_

 

_\- G_

 

As he scrolled back through the messages she had cataloged off the extranet, Garrus was surprised to find that every ignored message he had sent had been saved. He wasn't quite sure what to feel when the access time for each was dated just after she had officially ended things between them.

 

 _Hey, Shepard. It's great to be back on the_ Normandy _. Thanks for the intel on reunion protocols. Now I know what to do next time one of us is on lockdown for 6 months._

 

_\- G_

 

The first message he'd sent after Menae. He remembered the hesitation on her face when he'd asked her if she still felt the same way. She had said she wanted to wait things out, that she “needed time”.

 

It was embarrassing how easily he fell for it.

 

_Hey, Shepard. I've missed our talks. You forget where I hang out? Come see me in the battery when you've got a moment._

 

_\- G_

 

He had to stop himself from looking through the rest, already knowing what they would contain. It only brought up months of disappointment as he had checked his messages, never to find any received from her.

 

The next datapad was nothing of consequence. It just seemed to highlight the statistics generated in the war room. Unless he wanted her eulogy to turn into a salarian systems report and boast about the numbers they had in the final assault, it didn't seem very fitting, though it would save him the trouble of coming up with inane remarks to fill in the gaps of his final speech.

 

Not finding any inspiration from the clutter in her cabin, he returned to the first datapad, deciding to see what else she had saved from her personal messages. Surely, from the way everyone outside the _Normandy_ was in awe of the resurrected hero, she must have had many messages conveying gratitude. He opened one sent by the Urdnot clan leader, though he didn't have much faith in the arrogant krogan having an extensive vocabulary when it came to 'gratitude'. However, the words that appeared on the screen made his mandibles flutter as he exhaled in surprise.

 

_Shepard._

 

_The females aren't getting pregnant. They must be out of practice._

 

_\- Wreav_

 

The date on the message indicated it had been sent just before they had went to Cerberus headquarters. Garrus would normally not read much into the sex lives of krogan (in fact, the less he knew, the better) but there was something unsettling about it. This would have been months after they had cured the genophage.

 

Curiosity getting the better of him, Garrus began scrolling through the messages saved to the datapad. There were a lot of 'Thank you's and words of inspiration that should have made it easier for him to piece together what he would say about Shepard at the memorial. But his days of investigation at C-Sec resurfaced, his inquisitiveness second nature as he skimmed past the messages of well-wishing and uncovered the truth.

 

It was a message from the salarian dalatrass that upended everything he thought he had known about Shepard.

 

_Commander, I am pleased to learn of your decision on Tuchanka regarding the genophage. Reason has prevailed..._

 

As he read through the rest of it, he felt the dread crawl down his spine.

 

_Our remote sensing equipment has detected the cure has failed...the krogan are unaware of your actions..._

 

He felt like he was going to be sick. Shepard had betrayed the krogan all so she could have the support of the salarian fleet? Garrus had never been thrilled with giving Wreav the power that came with claiming his part in brokering an alliance and a cure, but to think that Shepard would have stooped that low?

 

He deleted all the incriminating messages he could find, in case anyone else should stumble upon this. This was the kind of information that could start another war and if Garrus knew Wreav, the idiot would take it out on everyone that had tried to cure the genophage, even those not involved in its sabotage. Like the incident that had transpired between Garrus and Shepard in London, Garrus would take the last of her secrets to the grave with him (and at least Vega had the good sense to not drag Shepard's name through the mud and keep the shooting to himself).

 

Dropping the datapad in disgust, Garrus limped out of the cabin and back to the elevator. He left more than her secrets in her private quarters and found that he was at a further loss of what to say than when he had arrived.

 

*

 

The placard weighed heavily in his hands as Garrus stood among the crew, staring at the list of the departed. The names on the memorial wall triggered another wave of remorse that had befallen everyone who stood silently before it: Ashley Williams, EDI, Legion...

 

Bitterly, Garrus thought that each of their deaths had been the result of one of Shepard's decisions. There were thousands of batarians dead because of a relay she destroyed. Their names would never fit in the little space on this wall. In the wasteland of Tuchanka, millions would die as their fertility dwindled and their names would be forgotten, returned to the toxic sands that begot a once glorious race.

 

There was a time when Garrus would have defended some of the hardest decisions Shepard had to make. Now, he questioned if she would have mourned the destruction she had left in the galaxy.

 

“Commander Shepard was...” he began, pausing to try and find the right words.

 

He had memorized a speech, filled with empty platitudes and the typical clichés found in memorials to dead soldiers. _“She was a leader, a hero, a friend...”, “She inspired the best in us...”, “She gave her life so that the rest of us may live...”_ It was all there on the tip of his tongue, every banality he could think of to add to the mythos of Shepard.

 

“Commander Shepard...” he tried again, but his vocals stopped abruptly.

 

The throb in his leg made him grip the placard so hard, he thought it would shatter in his talons.

 

As he looked down at the name he held in his hands, he was overcome with a revulsion that had him turning back towards the crew. He could see the expectation on their faces but it couldn't chase the bile that burned in his mouth every time he tried to say her name.

 

“I have nothing left to say about her,” he declared, dropping the placard into Liara's hands.

 

He limped past the shocked faces of the crew, escaping back to the battery.

 

Let the rest of them figure out what to say about her, to further the soldier turned “savior” from their imminent extinction. Let them fall for the same myth he had all those years ago, when he was just an overzealous C-Sec officer and she was a newly appointed Spectre, ready to take on the galaxy.

 

Garrus had fallen in love with a legend. In the end, she turned out to be just a human, one he had never really known at all.

 


End file.
